Outside the gleaming office building, the air was sticky and oppressively humid. Beneath Cherry's skin-tight dress, a thin film of sweat clung to her skin, sending waves of nausea through her stomach. The moisture was nothing more than another reminder of how repulsive she found her own body.
She swallowed, trying to ease the dryness in her throat. The high-heeled boots she'd borrowed from a stripper friend were painfully digging into her feet, but she knew he preferred them that way.
Vulgar. Filthy. Indecent.
Everything his carefully ordered world was not.
She pulled a cigarette from the small glossy clutch that was, in many ways, a perfect reflection of her life. It contained nothing of real importance â only a lighter, condoms, and lip gloss.Â
Her payment always came by bank transfer. The thought dispelled her disgust, and she smiled to herself â a financially responsible prostitute.
He âher only client â hated that word. He preferred partner. Cherry called him a snob, and precisely because the word made him uncomfortable, she repeated it whenever she had the chance.
"Prostitute. Prostitute. Prostitute."
More often than not, those little acts of defiance earned her even more money. Her client was an unusual man.
After a few more cigarettes, a motorcycle pulled up in front of her.
Jungkook took off his black helmet, its dark surface standing in sharp contrast to his deep cherry-red suit. He killed the engine but remained seated, watching her for several seconds.
He had a habit of doing that, as though he admired the spectacle of her moral decline.
"Have you been waiting long?" His voice was slightly hoarse, most likely from another lengthy meeting where he'd inevitably spent hours giving detailed instructions to his subordinates.
Strange as it was, despite the rigid routine that governed his everyday life, there was still a spark in his gaze âa vitality, or perhaps simply a mystery. Yet that inner light always seemed to collide with the merciless darkness of the corporate empire whose headquarters stood behind them, only to fade somewhere in the corners of his wide eyes.
Cherry loved losing herself in the contradictions of his character. Enduring his touch, however, required an almost unbearable effort.
"Not at all, oppa," she lied, using the honorific reserved for an older man even though he was several years younger than she was.
She knew he was in love with her. He didn't want to think of himself as someone who paid generously to buy her body. In his mind, he was taking care of her.
Stupid boy, she thought in passing, her attention fixed on her boot. She forced herself to walk naturally so the knife strapped to her thigh, concealed beneath the glossy black latex of one boot, wouldn't shift. The smallest mistake â a brief flash of steel â would be enough for Jungkook to notice.
After all, he had been raised under the constant threat of assassination, surrounded by greedy eyes and an unending thirst for revenge.
"Good," he said. "The company kept me longer than I expected."
Cherry swung one leg over the motorcycle. At the same moment, Jungkook caught hold of her leg, his hand settling just above the hidden knife. Her toes curled inside the boot in a nervous spasm, but somehow she managed to keep herself composed. Half of his face was turned back toward her, a smug smile tugging at his lips.
"I love these boots."
"I know, oppa. I bought them especially for tonight."
A low sound, almost animalistic, rumbled in his throat. It meant he was pleased. And aroused.
He let go of her leg and handed her the spare helmet. Cherry fastened the strap beneath her chin, which trembled despite every effort of her will. She couldn't endure another night of her body serving as the object of his desire. Her own flesh, the flesh she hated. The flesh she could never understand anyone else wanting.
Without a doubt, every other prostitute in Seoul would have dreamed of being in her place. Cherry's only wish was to be bodiless. To exist in a vacuum where gravity no longer held any power. For if a person is no longer bound by the weight of their own body, do they truly have one at all?
The roar of the engine tore her away from the battlefield of her thoughts. She lowered the visor of her helmet and gave Jungkook a signal that she was ready. The motorcycle seemed to glide across the damp streets. The night was hurried and deafening, exactly as nights in Seoul always were. The ride to his apartment was short, yet by the time they arrived, her body was drenched in even more sweat.
They parked in the underground garage before taking the elevator to the top floor. The view of the glittering city always filled Cherry with melancholy. From the heights where Jungkook lived, surrounded by unimaginable wealth, she could almost make out her own home.
Neat. Quiet. Comfortable. Nestled in a respectable, if not wealthy, neighborhood.
She imagined her parents' eyes â confused, yet overflowing with love.
What's wrong?
How can we help you?
And then came the terrible road of self-destruction â the one that had led her here. To this very moment. To this very second, when Jungkook slowly loosened his tie, his gaze posed its own silent question.
Will you do it?
Without making the slightest attempt to conceal it, Cherry pulled the knife from her boot. She stepped toward him. He didn't move. His arms were open to her, but her skin could bear no more love.
She drove the knife into his abdomen.
Once.
Twice.
And again.
A quiet groan escaped him as the first wave of pain contorted his face.
When he finally sank to his knees, he was still looking at her. There was no hatred in his eyes. Only a profound, crushing despair.
Cherry wiped the blade clean before sliding it back beneath her boot. The steel felt pleasantly warm against her thigh.
She turned and stepped back into the elevator.
The last thing she saw before the doors slid shut was the beauty of the city at night.
No body | Jungkook Dark Romance - Cherry Red (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1643278022-no-body-jungkook-dark-romance-cherry-redutm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=TessaGrey9Â
Cherry has never wanted to be loved. She has only ever wanted no body.Â
Not freedom. Not forgiveness. Just the impossible absence of skin.Â
Jungkook mistakes her distance for mystery. She mistakes his gaze for another thing that will eventually consume her.Â
Between them, nights become a language of money, silence, tenderness, and violence - until a single choice erases the meaning of everything that came before.Â
She was about to draw the curtains when she noticed it.
A tiny black insect sat quietly on her windowsill. The girl was notoriously terrified of insects, yet for some inexplicable reason this little creature inspired no fear. There was something about its complete stillness that reminded her of herself, and the thought filled her with sadness. She assumed that, like many insects, it came alive only after dark, and she felt an unexpected affection for a life that truly began only when the sun withdrew its painfully bright light.
"A creature of darkness," she murmured, smiling at the word. Only in near-total darkness could she surrender herself to her unusual sexuality.
She was a creature of darkness, one who found no form of physicality attractive. She could not bear the thought of two bodiesâwith all their flesh and bonesâpressed against one another. Even more repulsive was the act of intercourse itself. She could never understand the need for that violent intrusion into the intimate interior of her womanhood.
Instead, she was aroused by absence.
Whenever night fell, she would draw the curtains until the darkness in her room became absolute. She dressed her entire body, covering every inch of skin except for her eyes. For this she used a burqa she had bought in a distant Eastern country. Had the kind merchant who sold it to herâafter the customary bargainingâknown the true purpose of her purchase, he would almost certainly have accused her of blasphemy and lust. But she cared little for the moral implications of what she did, and every single night, without exception, she surrendered herself to her absent body.
The bed, fitted with a water mattress, had been chosen specifically for the sensation of weightlessness that water could imitate. Weightlessness. Bodilessness. For could one truly possess a body without feeling its crushing weight?
Sometimes she dreamed of outer space. Perhaps, in the vacuum beyond gravity's grasp, she could exist in a state of perpetual sexual ecstasyâa life that was itself an orgasm, severed from the confines of her own skin.
Those fantasies prepared her. She slipped a hand beneath the layers of clothing until she reached the warmth of her vaginaâthe only trace of her flesh that did not fill her with revulsion. Her cold fingers parted her womanhood until they found its essence, that exquisitely sensitive point.
In the darkness, her eyes wide open, she masturbated to her hatred of the bodyâher own as much as everyone else's. She stretched her thoughts of bodilessness to their furthest limits. She imagined endless ways of erasing flesh, and the more grotesque those fantasies became, the greater the pleasure gathering inside her.
She was not a masochist in the conventional sense. She did not long to have pain inflicted upon her body as part of some erotic game. That would still require her to inhabit herselfâto feel, to perceive, to acknowledge her own physical existence.
She wanted not to exist in the physical world at all, but rather as some fleeting erotic impulse that rises, reaches its peak, and then quietly dissolves, fulfilled.
To her, that was what true feminism meant.
But tonight her ritual was interrupted by the foolish little insect.
Moved by a sense of kinship, she made an unprecedented decision.
She left the curtains open.
The moonless night was dark enough anyway.
She lay down and surrendered herself to her sexuality. The moment her fingers began to move, the creature started to glow.
With quiet astonishment, the girl realized that the plain-looking insect was, in fact, a firefly.
The first firefly she had ever seen.
As a child she had listened to her grandmother's stories about those strange, fairy-tale creatures, yet she had never once seen one with her own eyes. The awakening of her curiosity, however, did not entirely distract her from the pleasure she sought. She continued her exploration of absence.
She noticed that her arousal seemed to grow in perfect step with the intensity of the firefly's light. Her clitoris became increasingly tense, deliciously tender, while the tiny creature illuminated more and more of the room.
Soon, its glow reached her own body.
She could make out its outline beneath the heavy layers of fabric, and for the first time she felt none of the revulsion she had always expected. The familiar spasm of nausea did not rise in her stomach.
She wanted to undress.
Trying not to interrupt the rhythm of her masturbation, she peeled away every layer until she was left wearing only her underwear. Propped upright in bed, her gaze drifting between the dazzling light of the firefly and the shape of her own body, she reached an orgasm unlike any she had ever experienced.
Her body trembled with waves of pleasure. She threw back her head and allowed the ecstasyâand the lightâto fill every part of her being.
The firefly stopped glowing.
She got up and walked toward the windowsill, wondering what had happened. Crouching until she was level with the tiny insect, she could have sworn that it looked at her with quiet satisfaction before taking flight into some unknown corner of the dark room.
The city lights shimmered below them, scattering across the glass like broken stars.
Jack stayed quiet, letting the cold bite at his hands. He couldn't remember the last time he'd allowed himself to just stand still â no noise, no crowd, no expectations.
And somehow, that silence was louder than any arena.
It made him think of the question he'd been asked too many times â by reporters, fans, even friends:
"How do you feel after the injury?"
"Perfect. Just happy to be doing what I love."
That was what he always said.
And it was true. At least partly.
Jack loved hockey more than anything else. "In its essence, hockey is simple â two nets, one puck. Us against everyone," he had read recently in a book.
That was the game when they were kids â him and his brothers against the world. Frozen fingers, flushed faces, steam rising from their breath. They played even when there was no ice, firing pucks at the garage door until the neighbors complained.
For as long as he could remember, the three of them had dreamed of professional hockey.
But it turned out to be harder to understand than it looked. Suddenly it wasn't just about how good you were on the ice. There were expectations, million-dollar contracts, pressure, injuries that never quite healed.
And yet, Jack had learned to fly.
Every goal, every cheer, every jersey with his number gave him the same dizzying rush, the kind that made the world shrink until it was just him and the ice. It was intoxicating.
And then came the injury.
Jack didn't waste time on reflection or self-pity. He focused on recovery with the same ruthless precision he used to chase wins. After the surgery, his shoulder healed perfectly.
During his first game of the new season, everything looked the same â the rink, the crowd, the rhythm of play.
But the stick in his hand felt just a little heavier. He told himself he was imagining it. Nerves, maybe.Â
Đąhen one day, an intern drew him, and the sketch unsettled something deep inside him.
Because in that drawing, it wasn't the player.
It wasn't the golden boy everyone thought he was.
Not even "Jack Hughes."
It was simply a twenty-four-year-old guy â one who was finally starting to wonder who he was when he wasn't flying.
The noise of the city faded behind him, replaced by the steady hum of traffic far below.
After a while, Jack straightened, pulling the sleeves of his suit jacket down and forcing his shoulders back into place. The air outside had gone sharp and thin, cutting through the quiet like glass.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been out there â long enough for the stars to blur into the city lights, long enough for the cold to bite through his composure.
When he finally turned back toward the ballroom, the warmth and color hit him all at once: golden light, music, motion.
Luke spotted him first. "Hey! There you are. Thought you bailed."
Jack forced a smile. "Just needed some air."
"You and your dramatic exits," Luke laughed, but it sounded nervous. He handed Jack a glass of champagne, the bubbles spilling over the rim.
"Come on," Luke said. "They're about to make a toast. The whole 'franchise family' thing."
Jack hesitated, glancing toward the podium where management and sponsors were gathering. Cameras were already turning their way.
"Go ahead," he said. "You're better at smiling for pictures."
Luke frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Jack didn't answer. He was already looking toward the crowd â at the carefully dressed executives, the players' wives, the reporters pretending not to listen.
And somewhere near the back, he saw her.
Amelia.
Still standing half in shadow, camera hanging loosely from her hand, watching everything but not belonging to it.
Their eyes met for a heartbeat â then Karen appeared beside her, whispering something that made Amelia stiffen and look away.
Luke followed his brother's gaze. "You don't have to take it all so seriously, you know."
Jack's jaw tightened. "I'm fine."
"You keep saying that like it's supposed to convince someone."
He didn't mean to react, but the words landed harder than they should have.
Maybe it was the music, or the flash of another camera, or just the weight of being seen again.
Jack turned sharply. "You think I like this?"
Luke blinked. "I didn't sayâ"
"Every minute of it feels fake," Jack said quietly, but his voice carried. "The smiles, the speeches, the..."
He stopped himself before finishing the sentence. Too many eyes were starting to turn their way.
Amelia froze where she stood, unsure whether to move closer or disappear.
Luke looked at his brother, something between concern and anger flickering across his face.
"Then why are you here, Jack?"
Jack's answer came out before he could filter it. "Because everyone expects me to be."
The tension still hung in the air long after the music covered it up.
Jack stayed where he was, glass in hand, staring at nothing. Conversations had already shifted, the crowd had swallowed the moment â but it pulsed quietly under his skin like an old bruise.
He caught sight of Amelia near the back of the room again. She was pretending to scroll through her phone, half-listening to Karen's chatter, half somewhere else. When her eyes briefly met his, she didn't look away.
A moment later, a waiter passed between them, carrying a tray. When he moved, Jack noticed a folded napkin on the edge of the bar â small, square, creased once down the middle.
He frowned, glanced around. No one was paying attention.
He unfolded it.
"You want to get out of here?"
Just eight words, written in neat, slightly slanted handwriting.
Jack blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching before he even realized it.
He looked up, and across the room Amelia lifted her eyebrows â barely a question, more like an invitation.
A minute later, he found her near the service corridor. Neither of them said anything as they slipped out through the side door, unnoticed.
The hallway beyond was quiet and dimly lit, smelling faintly of coffee and disinfectant â the unglamorous backstage of the perfect event.
"I didn't think you'd actually find it," she said, her tone light but unsure.
"I didn't think you'd actually write it," he replied, still holding the note.
They walked until the music was just a distant throb behind them. Outside, the parking lot was half-empty, the air sharp and cold.
Amelia shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. "You didn't have to leave. I just thought... maybe you didn't want to keep pretending."
Jack let out a quiet laugh â the kind that sounded like it surprised even him. "You're not wrong."
"About pretending?"
He nodded. "I'm supposed to be good at it. Smiling, saying the right things. It's part of the job."
"Maybe you're just out of practice," she said softly.
For a moment, they stood in silence, the wind tugging at her hair, the neon lights from the arena painting their faces in pale blue.
Jack looked down at the folded napkin still in his hand, the ink smudged slightly from his grip.
"You know, most people just text."Â
Amelia smiled faintly. "Most people aren't you."
He raised an eyebrow, a trace of amusement breaking through the tension. "Well, you definitely got my attention."
She shrugged, hands still buried in her coat pockets. "I didn't have your number."
That finally made him laugh â a quiet, genuine sound that seemed to loosen something in both of them.
"Then I guess I owe you my number," he said, still smiling.
Jack slipped the napkin into his pocket, the corner of it peeking out like a secret he wasn't ready to share.
"Come on," he said after a moment, nodding toward the parking lot. "There's a diner a few blocks away. The kind that still serves coffee after midnight."
Amelia tilted her head, studying him as if trying to decide whether he was serious.
"And you actually drink coffee after midnight?"
He smiled. "No. But it's better than standing here pretending we don't want to leave."
She laughed quietly, the sound lighter than it had been all night. "Alright then."
They started walking â side by side, not quite close, not quite distant â their breath rising in pale clouds against the dark.
Behind them, the noise of the gala faded, swallowed by the city's hum.
Between the muted laughter, teasing remarks, and careless whistles, Jack's gaze found Amelia's.
Behind the thin frames of her glasses, two almond-shaped eyes looked back at him â deep, dark brown, almost black.
Contrary to what he expected, there was no sadness in them. They carried, instead, a quiet acceptance, like still water after a storm.
A wave of distaste stirred inside him. He had hated bullies ever since he was a child. On the ice, aggression felt like something natural â even necessary. But cruelty outside the rink, the kind born from boredom and vanity, he could never stand.
To avoid a scene â and the inevitable headline, "Jack Hughes' Next Romantic Scandal" â he remained perfectly still. He didn't so much as glance at Karen, the team's social media manager and the cause of the whole spectacle. Losing his temper would only feed her ego.
Still, he couldn't just sit there. He nudged Luke slightly and gave a small, deliberate nod toward the sketchbook being tossed from hand to hand. His brother understood the hint and quietly took it from Jasper.
Before anyone could notice, Jack reached into his backpack and pulled out a Sharpie â the one he usually used for autographs.
The moment the page opened, he froze. The contours, the shadows, the tiny, deliberate strokes â all of it was so vividly real that for a heartbeat he wondered if this was truly him. The drawing revealed something honest, something he'd long forgotten beneath the flash of cameras and the endless repetition of games, wins, and headlines.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the same quiet awe flicker across Luke's face.
Without thinking, Jack lowered the marker and drew a small, smiling stick figure near the edge of the page. It was clumsy, crooked, almost childlike but it carried a message he hoped she might somehow understand:Â thank you.
He closed the sketchbook and handed it back to Karen, who, to her faint credit, looked at least slightly embarrassed.
The plane settled into a soft, steady hum. The brothers kept playing for a while, until Luke's head slowly tilted forward and sleep claimed him. Jack turned toward the window. The world outside was nothing but pale clouds and drifting light, yet his mind wouldn't rest.
For the first time in many months, he wasn't thinking about the next practice, the next match, the next win. Instead, he thought of a girl who drew the world the way he once played â with complete devotion, unafraid to fall.
 The Morning After
The office kitchen smelled faintly of burnt coffee and cold bagels.
Amelia sat by the window, her laptop open, her thoughts elsewhere. The low hum of the fridge filled the silence as she scrolled through folders of photos from the last game â blurred motion, gloved hands, a flash of ice. It all looked the same, yet she couldn't bring herself to delete any of them.
Her sketchbook was still in her bag. She hadn't dared to open it since last night. The small doodle in the corner â that ridiculous, smiling stick figure â hovered in her mind like a secret too fragile to touch.
"Hey."
The voice startled her slightly.
She turned and saw him leaning against the doorway â cap pulled low, hoodie halfway zipped, a paper cup of coffee in his hand. He looked nothing like the player she'd seen under arena lights. Without the uniform, the spotlight, the noise, he seemed... quieter. Maybe smaller, though not in a bad way. Just more human.
"I didn't mean to scare you," Jack said. His tone was casual, almost careful.
"You didn't." She hesitated, closing her laptop. "Just... zoned out."
He nodded, stepping closer to the counter, turning his cup between his palms as if he needed something to do with his hands.
"You're the intern, right? Amelia?"
She almost smiled. "That's me. You're... Jack Hughes."
"Yeah." A faint grin. "I've heard of me."
Silence slipped between them â not heavy, but slightly crooked, like a frame hung a little off-center. From the hallway came distant voices, the echo of someone laughing.
Amelia looked at him again, and for a moment she caught something unexpected â the tiniest tremor in his hand as he set the cup down. Barely there, but real. A small twitch, maybe from exhaustion, or from the long recovery she'd heard whispers about.
He noticed her noticing and tucked his hand into the pocket of his hoodie.
"Still getting used to flying again," he said, as if that explained everything.
Amelia only nodded. She wanted to say something â that she understood, that turbulence always made her feel like she was falling â but didn't. Instead, she reached for her own cup of coffee and took a sip. It had gone cold.
He straightened, pushing away from the counter. "Anyway. Nice drawing, by the way."
Her stomach turned, but he didn't look teasing. His voice was soft, almost neutral. "You've got a good eye."
Before she could think of what to reply, he was already halfway down the hallway.
Amelia exhaled slowly, staring at the empty doorway. For a brief second, she thought she smelled the sharp tang of marker ink â imagined or not, she couldn't tell.
She opened her bag and touched the edge of her sketchbook, just once, before closing it again.
The plane was surprisingly quiet. Most of the players were asleep, exhausted after the grueling match and the long stretch of travel between games. The Hughes brothers sat side by side. The shade on the small window was lifted, letting a soft light spill over their faces. The warm hues of the setting sun blended perfectly with Luke's green-flecked eyes and Jack's endless blue ones.
Or at least that's how it seemed to Amelia.
Even though she had a pile of photos to edit for the team's social media, the intern pulled out the small notebook she used as a sketchbook. Actually, she hated calling it that â it felt too narrow, too formal. She preferred journal. A journal filled with sketches of everything she found beautiful.
She began with a rough pencil outline, using light, confident strokes to mark the proportions. The shapes of their faces were clean and distinct â easy to capture. What proved difficult was Jack's hair. It was long, but not quite; it fell freely, as if he didn't care how it looked, yet somehow still seemed styled. Amelia switched to softer graphite, letting the lines loosen as she tried to follow the way his hair caught the light and broke into uneven strands. That effortless contradiction â careless but intentional â captivated her completely, and she spent an enviably long time trying to capture it on paper.
In the end, the slightly curved ends of his hair bounced off the page of her sketchbook as if alive. She lifted her gaze once more to check the accuracy of the drawing. The brothers were still absorbed in their own world â it looked like they were playing some kind of game together. Their faces carried that almost childlike, stubborn determination that Amelia tried to capture in her sketch. But human emotion was always so hard to trap within just a few pencil strokes.
The intern took a fine-liner pen from her bag to make the contours sharper and bring out the details â the lines of their shirts, the light falling across Jack's cheekbone, the subtle tension in Luke's posture. She switched from soft graphite shading to fine ink lines, tracing over the pencil with care, trying not to smudge the graphite beneath.
Then someone leaned over her shoulder. For any artist, that was one of the most unpleasant sensations â a sheer intrusion into their private creative space. Without thinking, without even looking at who it was, Amelia blurted out:
"Sorry, could you not?"
A strange, high-pitched laugh followed â one of those sounds that left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. A taste of trouble.
"Ooooh," a voice boomed, Karen's voice (so fitting a name, Amelia had thought back during the interview). "We've got ourselves a fan."
It took Amelia a moment to realize what was happening, and though it might have looked like slow comprehension on her part, the truth was she had simply been too absorbed in the act of drawing. Through her eyes, every person, object, color, and sound became a fragment of the world's endless beauty â and she merely tried to capture it in graphite and ink on the pages of her sketchbook.
Only after a long moment did she fully realize who Jack and Luke were â how famous they actually were and, more importantly, how she must have looked right then.
She opened her mouth to explain the situation to her supervisor, but of course, she never got the chance.
Karen snatched the sketchbook from her hands with a sharp, almost theatrical motion â the kind that sliced through the air quieter than Amelia's breath â and waved it like a piece of evidence. The paper rustled under the cabin lights, graphite lines glimmering faintly, as if the secret they held had suddenly been exposed.
In the next instant, every pair of eyes turned their way. Staff, coaches, players. Even the flight attendants froze mid-aisle, trays in hand, their polite smiles stiffening with curiosity.
So many eyes. Some amused, others merely entertained, but all watching.
"Well, well," Karen laughed, that too-loud, self-satisfied laugh that cracked through the silence like bad feedback from a microphone. "Looks like someone's got a crush on our stars."
Amelia didn't flinch. She didn't feel shame, or sadness. Not because she was particularly brave but because this had happened too many times before. Ever since school, people had always found it strange, even funny, that she drew everything she found beautiful. Apparently, whenever that beauty had a male face, it immediately meant something romantic.
The smirks on a few of the players' faces weren't so different from the mocking smiles of her old classmates. The world, it seemed, had grown older, but not wiser.
And really what was so funny about love, in any of its forms?
Still, the scene didn't hurt. Not even Karen's drawn-out speech about the team's "strict policy" on playerâstaff relationships. Her words echoed like a recording that had been played one too many times â hollow, mechanical.
But something else stung.
Not the laughter. Not the lecture.
It was Jack's gaze â steady, unreadable, yet cutting through the noise with quiet intensity.
A look that reminded her, painfully and beautifully, why she ever started drawing people in the first place.
When Karen finally tossed the sketchbook back onto Amelia's lap, it landed face-down, pages slightly crumpled from too many unfamiliar hands. Amelia smoothed it gently, feeling the faint texture of graphite under her fingertips. One of the corners was bent, the paper warm from someone else's touch.
She hesitated before turning it over, half expecting to see a ripped page or some new smudge across Jack's face. But instead, at the very bottom of the drawing â below the fine lines she'd inked so carefully â there was something new.
A tiny doodle.
It was a simple smiling stick figure, drawn in dark pen, standing right beside the edge of her sketch. Its head was too big, the arms crooked, as if drawn in a rush â but the curve of the grin was unmistakably deliberate.
Amelia blinked, unsure if she was imagining it. That doodle hadn't been there before. She always remembered every mark she made. She looked closer: the ink wasn't hers. It was bolder, the kind of pen used by someone who didn't worry about mistakes.
Her mind pieced it together in fragments. The moment when Karen had waved the sketchbook around. The laughter. The brothers whispering, one of them leaning slightly forward. Luke, maybe â or Jack. It could have been either. Someone had taken the pen, just long enough to add the tiny figure before it was handed back.
Amelia glanced up. The brothers were talking again, low voices blending into the soft hum of the cabin. Jack's expression hadn't changed. Luke was leaning back in his seat, earbuds in, gaze fixed somewhere near the window. Neither of them looked her way.
She pressed her thumb lightly over the little drawing. The paper yielded beneath her touch. It was nothing â a careless joke, probably. But something about it softened the air around her, made the whole humiliating scene feel slightly less sharp.
She closed the sketchbook and placed it back in her bag, but the image lingered in her mind â that simple smiling line, small and alive among her careful strokes
The plane was surprisingly quiet. Most of the players were asleep, exhausted after the grueling match and the long stretch of travel between games. The Hughes brothers sat side by side. The shade on the small window was lifted, letting a soft light spill over their faces. The warm hues of the setting sun blended perfectly with Luke's green-flecked eyes and Jack's endless blue ones.
Or at least that's how it seemed to Amelia.
Even though she had a pile of photos to edit for the team's social media, the intern pulled out the small notebook she used as a sketchbook. Actually, she hated calling it that â it felt too narrow, too formal. She preferred journal. A journal filled with sketches of everything she found beautiful.
She began with a rough pencil outline, using light, confident strokes to mark the proportions. The shapes of their faces were clean and distinct â easy to capture. What proved difficult was Jack's hair. It was long, but not quite; it fell freely, as if he didn't care how it looked, yet somehow still seemed styled. Amelia switched to softer graphite, letting the lines loosen as she tried to follow the way his hair caught the light and broke into uneven strands. That effortless contradiction â careless but intentional â captivated her completely, and she spent an enviably long time trying to capture it on paper.
In the end, the slightly curved ends of his hair bounced off the page of her sketchbook as if alive. She lifted her gaze once more to check the accuracy of the drawing. The brothers were still absorbed in their own world â it looked like they were playing some kind of game together. Their faces carried that almost childlike, stubborn determination that Amelia tried to capture in her sketch. But human emotion was always so hard to trap within just a few pencil strokes.
The intern took a fine-liner pen from her bag to make the contours sharper and bring out the details â the lines of their shirts, the light falling across Jack's cheekbone, the subtle tension in Luke's posture. She switched from soft graphite shading to fine ink lines, tracing over the pencil with care, trying not to smudge the graphite beneath.
Then someone leaned over her shoulder. For any artist, that was one of the most unpleasant sensations â a sheer intrusion into their private creative space. Without thinking, without even looking at who it was, Amelia blurted out:
"Sorry, could you not?"
A strange, high-pitched laugh followed â one of those sounds that left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. A taste of trouble.
"Ooooh," a voice boomed, Karen's voice (so fitting a name, Amelia had thought back during the interview). "We've got ourselves a fan."
It took Amelia a moment to realize what was happening, and though it might have looked like slow comprehension on her part, the truth was she had simply been too absorbed in the act of drawing. Through her eyes, every person, object, color, and sound became a fragment of the world's endless beauty â and she merely tried to capture it in graphite and ink on the pages of her sketchbook.
Only after a long moment did she fully realize who Jack and Luke were â how famous they actually were and, more importantly, how she must have looked right then.
She opened her mouth to explain the situation to her supervisor, but of course, she never got the chance.
Karen snatched the sketchbook from her hands with a sharp, almost theatrical motion â the kind that sliced through the air quieter than Amelia's breath â and waved it like a piece of evidence. The paper rustled under the cabin lights, graphite lines glimmering faintly, as if the secret they held had suddenly been exposed.
In the next instant, every pair of eyes turned their way. Staff, coaches, players. Even the flight attendants froze mid-aisle, trays in hand, their polite smiles stiffening with curiosity.
So many eyes. Some amused, others merely entertained, but all watching.
"Well, well," Karen laughed, that too-loud, self-satisfied laugh that cracked through the silence like bad feedback from a microphone. "Looks like someone's got a crush on our stars."
Amelia didn't flinch. She didn't feel shame, or sadness. Not because she was particularly brave but because this had happened too many times before. Ever since school, people had always found it strange, even funny, that she drew everything she found beautiful. Apparently, whenever that beauty had a male face, it immediately meant something romantic.
The smirks on a few of the players' faces weren't so different from the mocking smiles of her old classmates. The world, it seemed, had grown older, but not wiser.
And really what was so funny about love, in any of its forms?
Still, the scene didn't hurt. Not even Karen's drawn-out speech about the team's "strict policy" on playerâstaff relationships. Her words echoed like a recording that had been played one too many times â hollow, mechanical.
But something else stung.
Not the laughter. Not the lecture.
It was Jack's gaze â steady, unreadable, yet cutting through the noise with quiet intensity.
A look that reminded her, painfully and beautifully, why she ever started drawing people in the first place.
When Karen finally tossed the sketchbook back onto Amelia's lap, it landed face-down, pages slightly crumpled from too many unfamiliar hands. Amelia smoothed it gently, feeling the faint texture of graphite under her fingertips. One of the corners was bent, the paper warm from someone else's touch.
She hesitated before turning it over, half expecting to see a ripped page or some new smudge across Jack's face. But instead, at the very bottom of the drawing â below the fine lines she'd inked so carefully â there was something new.
A tiny doodle.
It was a simple smiling stick figure, drawn in dark pen, standing right beside the edge of her sketch. Its head was too big, the arms crooked, as if drawn in a rush â but the curve of the grin was unmistakably deliberate.
Amelia blinked, unsure if she was imagining it. That doodle hadn't been there before. She always remembered every mark she made. She looked closer: the ink wasn't hers. It was bolder, the kind of pen used by someone who didn't worry about mistakes.
Her mind pieced it together in fragments. The moment when Karen had waved the sketchbook around. The laughter. The brothers whispering, one of them leaning slightly forward. Luke, maybe â or Jack. It could have been either. Someone had taken the pen, just long enough to add the tiny figure before it was handed back.
Amelia glanced up. The brothers were talking again, low voices blending into the soft hum of the cabin. Jack's expression hadn't changed. Luke was leaning back in his seat, earbuds in, gaze fixed somewhere near the window. Neither of them looked her way.
She pressed her thumb lightly over the little drawing. The paper yielded beneath her touch. It was nothing â a careless joke, probably. But something about it softened the air around her, made the whole humiliating scene feel slightly less sharp.
She closed the sketchbook and placed it back in her bag, but the image lingered in her mind â that simple smiling line, small and alive among her careful strokes
Amelia wasn't meant to stand out-just another intern, quietly working behind the scenes. But her drawings capture the world of hockey in a way that makes Jack Hughes pause, makes him notice things he's spent years ignoring. Every glance, every shared moment teeters on the edge of rules that forbid them from acting on what they feel. As ambition and expectation press in from all sides, Jack and Amelia are forced to confront a connection that is as inevitable as it is impossible.
Prologue
In most arenas, the locker room is about eight hundred steps away from the ice. Jack knows this from personal experienceâwhen he was a kid, he used to count the steps that separated him from the rink. The minutes before a game were always his least favorite, for the simple reason that he couldn't wait to fly. Because for a five-year-old boy, hockey was exactly that â flying.
More than ten years have passed since the carefree days of childhood dreams, yet Jack still shivers every time his skates leave solid ground and touch the ice. In that single moment of weightlessness, absolutely anything feels possible. Jack is immortal.
But just as light exists only because of darkness, flying always carries the shadow of a fall. And more often than not, that fall comes with love. Falling in love.
For Jack Hughes, the new hockey season after his injury and the long months of recovery began just like that. With flying. And then with a fall. A long, painfully sweet fall into love.
And it was all because of those silly drawings. Her damned drawings.
Offside | Jack Hughes Fanfic (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/story/402126642-offside-jack-hughes-fanfic?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_myworks&wp_uname=miA_cooky Amelia wasn't meant to stand out-just another intern, quietly working behind the scenes. But her drawings capture the world of hockey in a way that makes Jack Hughes pause, makes him notice things he's spent years ignoring. Every glance, every shared moment teeters on the edge of rules that forbid them from acting on what they feel. As ambition and expectation press in from all sides, Jack and Amelia are forced to confront a connection that is as inevitable as it is impossible.
The highstorm raged outside, its howling winds and thunderous roar echoing through the stone corridors of Urithiru. Kaladin sat alone on one of the towerâs many balconies, perched precariously on the edge, as was his habit when the storms came. The stormlight in his veins pulsed faintly, keeping him anchored even as the wind tugged at his loose shirt and dark hair.
He should have been asleep, but rest didnât come easily these daysânot when his thoughts were consumed by her.
The princess.
She was unlike anyone heâd ever known, her presence both comforting and challenging. She was soft-spoken yet firm, compassionate yet unyielding when it came to her duty. The way she moved through the hospitals, her hands steady as she healed, her smile warm as sunlight, made his chest ache in a way he couldnât quite name.
He thought of the way she had looked at him that night sheâd had the nightmare, her tear-streaked face full of relief and worry. He had stayed with her then, breaking rules he had sworn to follow, because he couldnât bear to leave her. And yet, he had left so many others behind. He had failed so many.
She deserved better than him.
Kaladin clenched his fists, the stormlight within him flaring briefly before dimming. She was a princess, a healer, someone destined to change the world with her compassion and skill. He was a soldier, a killer, his hands stained with too much blood. What right did he have to even think of her in this way?
And yet, he couldnât stop.
He couldnât stop the way his gaze lingered on her when she smiled at him, her eyes bright with unspoken understanding. He couldnât stop the way his heart quickened whenever she stepped into the room, her presence like a balm to his ever-turbulent thoughts. He couldnât stop the way his chest tightened when he imagined a future where someone else stood by her side.
The storm outside mirrored the one within him, wild and relentless. He wanted to tell herâwanted to take her hand and confess the truth, even though he knew he never could. She deserved someone who could give her a life of peace, not one of storms and battle.
He leaned back against the cool stone wall, closing his eyes as the wind roared around him. Maybe this was his punishment, to yearn for something he could never have. To feel this connection, this pull, and know he would never act on it.
And yet, when he thought of her, he couldnât bring himself to regret it.
âKaladin?â
The soft voice startled him, and his eyes snapped open. She stood at the entrance to the balcony, her figure illuminated by the faint glow of stormlight. She wore a simple robe, her hair falling loose over her shoulders, and the sight of her took his breath away.
âYouâre out here again,â she said, stepping closer. Her expression was a mix of concern and exasperation. âDo you ever rest?â
âI could ask you the same,â he replied, his voice rougher than he intended.
She smiled faintly, her arms crossing as she leaned against the railing beside him. âThe storms make it hard to sleep. They remind me of⊠everything weâre fighting against.â
He nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. âI know the feeling.â
For a moment, neither of them spoke, the storm filling the silence between them.
âYou always seem to find peace in the storm,â she said softly.
He hesitated, then replied, âNot peace. Just⊠clarity. It makes the world feel simpler, even if itâs only for a moment.â
She looked at him then, her eyes searching his face. âYou carry so much, Kaladin. More than anyone should have to.â
Her words were like a knife to his heart. He wanted to tell her everythingâthat she was the only thing keeping him anchored some days, the thought of her smile the only light in the darkness. But he stayed silent, his stormlight flickering faintly in his veins.
âYou should go inside,â he said finally, his voice low. âThe storm isnât safe.â
âAnd you?â she asked, her tone soft but firm.
âIâll stay a while longer,â he replied.
She hesitated, then reached out, her hand brushing his briefly. âDonât stay out here too long, Kaladin.â
And then she was gone, her presence lingering like the warmth of sunlight after a storm.
He leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes closing as the wind howled around him. He was a fool to yearn for her, but he couldnât stop. Even if it broke him, he would endure itâbecause she was worth it. Every storm, every ache, every breath.
Happy holidays to you all! I hope you have a pleasant and blessed end of this year!Â
Once more I got to do Dragosteel's holiday card, and what a pleasure it was to do that one. This year the theme was awkward family foto and Christmas sweaters, or at least spren sweaters?Â
Do you have a favourite?
People have been asking where the favourite Kholin son is, and yes originally Kaladin was in there, but then got booted out to be replaced by Gallant. (Seems like nobody signed any adoption papers so farâŠ)
But I made some art with him, Shallan and Adolin to restore balance. And so I could design Adolinâs sweater details, because how can it be a fashion oriented card and then NOT show his choice for it?!
It has swords and horses (Sureblood is in the back), of course!
And yes, ever since I was asked to include that chull plushy in that card, I knew I had to get one at Nexus. They are adorable. So round. His name is Chubby. Chubby the chull. TSA find them suspicious.Â
Art director and co-conspirator on the inside was the incredible Priscilla Spencer. @priscellie
The air in the hospital was thick with the scent of antiseptics and the low murmurs of healers tending to the wounded. The princess sat by a soldierâs cot, her hands methodically wrapping a bandage around a fresh wound. Her movements were steady, preciseâshe was known for her calm demeanor in moments like thisâbut her thoughts were anything but calm.
Kaladin Stormblessed had been gone for weeks, traveling to Hearthstone to warn his family about the Everstorm. At first, there had been spanreed messages written in glyphs, brief updates to assure them he was alive. But then, abruptly, the messages had stopped. Every day since, the silence had weighed heavier on her chest.
The wounded soldier she was tending groaned, bringing her focus back. She tied the bandage off with practiced ease. âYouâll be fine,â she said softly, though her voice lacked its usual warmth.
A commotion outside the hospital caught her attention. Snippets of hurried conversations reached her ears: âStormblessed is back.â
Her heart stopped. Kaladin?
âIs it true?â she asked one of the scouts standing nearby, her voice sharp.
The man nodded, his face lighting up. âI saw him myself. Heâs alive.â
Without another word, she stood, her heart racing. She barely registered the murmurs of confusion from the other healers as she strode quickly out of the room. Worry turned to hope as she made her way toward her fatherâs chambers, her thoughts a whirlwind of relief and anticipation.
By the time she reached the large doors, she didnât pause to compose herself. She pushed them open, her eyes immediately searching the roomâand there he was.
Kaladin stood with her father, her brothers Adolin and Renarin, and several men from Bridge Four. The mood in the room was light, almost jubilant. The men were clearly happy to see Kaladin, clapping him on the back and making jokes, though Kaladin himself seemed subdued, standing slightly apart from the others.
For her, the world narrowed. Relief flooded her as she took in the sight of him: alive, whole, here. She didnât care about the others in the room or what they might think.
âKaladin!â she called out, her voice trembling.
Before anyone could react, she crossed the room in a few quick strides and wrapped her arms around him. The conversations around them stopped, and the room went silent.
Kaladin froze for a moment, startled, but then his arms came up to hold her. âIâm here,â he said softly. âIâm okay.â
Dalinar cleared his throat, his voice steady and commanding. âEveryone out.â
The men hesitated, exchanging glances, but no one dared argue. One by one, they filed out, Adolin and Renarin included, though her brothers both smiled as they passed.
Now alone, she stepped back slightly, keeping her hands on his arms as if to reassure herself he was real. âYouâre not hurt?â she asked, her voice still trembling.
âIâm fine,â Kaladin replied, his stormy eyes meeting hers.
She narrowed her eyes. âAre you lying to me?â
A faint smile tugged at his lips. âNo. Not this time.â
She let out a shaky breath, relief flooding her. âYour parents?â she asked. âDid you find them?â
Kaladinâs expression softened, his voice quieter. âI did. Theyâre safe. The Everstorm hit, but the townspeople helped each other, and they made it through.â He paused, something tender and bittersweet flickering across his face. âAndâŠI have a baby brother. My mother gave birth. His name is Oroden.â
Her brow furrowed. âA baby brother?â
He nodded, his voice filled with emotion. âHe reminds me of Tien. Heâs small, but thereâs something about himâthis light, this innocence.â Kaladinâs voice faltered, his jaw tightening as he added, âI couldnât save Tien. But Iâll protect Oroden. I have to.â
Her hand moved to rest on his, her touch gentle but grounding. âYou will,â she said softly. âI know you will.â
For a moment, the two stood close, the silence between them heavy with unspoken emotions. She offered him a faint smile, one that carried both relief and gratitude.
âYou should rest,â she said finally, her voice softer now. âYouâve been through enough.â
âMaybe,â he replied, his eyes still on her. âBut not yet.â
Her smile widened, a touch of warmth returning to her voice. âDonât make me order you, Kaladin.â
He chuckled, the sound low and tired but genuine. âIâll consider it, Princess.â
And for the first time in weeks, the storm within them both began to ease
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